


As Luck Would Have It

by spycandy



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Could getting a tropical illness in Canada actually be a piece of good luck for Martin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Luck Would Have It

Martin was late. He was ten whole minutes late for the taxi that was to take the crew from the unremarkable Canadian hotel to the airport for the final leg of what had been an epically long round-the-world flight itinerary.

“Right, that's more than enough of a lie in, even if he was absolutely knackered last night,” said Carolyn. “Go and get him you two.”

'Knackered' didn't begin to cover how tired Martin had looked the previous evening, thought Douglas as he and Arthur rode the lift back up to the third floor. Pale at the best of times, MJN's captain had been positively wan as he turned down dinner in favour of an early night, claiming sore eyes.

So it was something of a shock when, just as he was about to knock on Martin's door, a loud moan emitted from the hotel room.

Oh ho! That was familiar from days of attempting to rouse Air England co-pilots who were late for rendezvous. Sneaky Martin, ducking out of dining with his colleagues to go on the pull. Then Douglas remembered who he was thinking about. He banged on the door. “Martin!”

“Douglas? What should we do?” asked Arthur.

“We need to get in there.” said Douglas. “No, wait!”

It was too late, but the door didn't budge even a tiny bit thanks to Arthur's flying kick.

“Ow! Oh, really, really ow.”

“Well if that didn't wake him... I'm going to get one of the staff with a key.”

>>>

Arthur was still hopping outside the door when Douglas returned with the concierge.

“You're sure he's not just running late?

“Martin, late? He'd rather eat strudel. He wasn't feeling very well last night.” Douglas himself was starting to feel pretty sick with worry. “He might have taken a turn for the worse.”

The hotel employee slid the keycard into the reader and pushed the door open a crack, so that they could see the lights were on.

“Sir, I'm coming into the room. Your colleagues called... Ah.”

At that small sound of alarm, Douglas pushed past the man so that he too could see the shivering pilot curled tightly around one of the pillows on the bed, eyes scrunched shut. He hadn't even managed to fully undress, but his uniform shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal a rash so red that it practically gave off its own light.

Douglas sat down on the bed beside him and touched the back of his hand to Martin's forehead. He turned to the hotel employee, who was still hovering just inside the doorway.“Call an ambulance. Now.”

>>

“Ah, there you are sleepyhead.”

Carolyn's voice offered a gentle anchor to his whirling mind as the bright room gradually swam into focus. His crewmates loomed over him.

Two questions occurred to him simultaneously. “Am I dying?” and “Why is Arthur on crutches?”

“Broken toe, Skip,” said Arthur. “Kicking down doors is a lot harder than it looks in films.”

“Oh. Er, what happened?”

“Goodness only knows how Martin, but you managed to come down with Dengue fever in Canada,” said Carolyn.

“To be fair Carolyn,” added Douglas. “He probably caught it in Tahiti. The doctors said it has a five to eight day incubation period.”

“But we were only in Tahiti for three hours,” Martin protested weakly. “We never even left the airport. Ugh, that's bad luck even by my standards.”

Douglas flinched. “ _Don't_ , Martin. That's not...” he tailed off, his always-smooth voice hoarse and strange. Surely that had been a perfect opening for some teasing on the topic of Martin's preposterous ill-fortune.

“What's the matter with Douglas?”

“Oh,” said Arthur, whose conspiratorial whisper could probably be heard on the next ward. “He came over all peculiar when the doctor said that if you were really unlucky, it could turn into hello magic fever.”

“Haemorrhagic,” supplied Carolyn. “But I think we can spare Martin the details for now, Arthur. They also said you're over the worst of it.”

Just how bad had the worst been? wondered Martin, noticing that Carolyn's eyes were red around the edges and Arthur was blinking a lot more than usual. Then Douglas reached over and ruffled his hair with a thin smile that Martin knew was the closest he'd ever get to an admission that his first officer really had been afraid for him.

“Right, I promised your sister that I'd call her once you were awake,” said Carolyn, rising somewhat stiffly from the hospital chair that was pulled up close to his bedside. She gave him a soft pat on the arm, before heading out of sight.

“So, how are you feeling now then?” asked Arthur.

“Pretty terrible still,” said Martin. In fact, now that the novelty of consciousness was wearing off, the pain behind his eyes and the achy joints were making themselves known once more as he attempted to sit up. “But I suppose I'd better get up – we're going to be late for the Amsterdam flight.”

“Ah, Martin, I fear that ship has sailed, or rather, that plane hasn't flown,” said Douglas, rediscovering his voice at last. “It was supposed to be more than two days ago.”

“Oh,” gasped Martin, falling back onto the pillow, equal parts relieved at not having to move just yet and horrified that because of him, MJN was so far behind schedule and on the wrong continent. “Uh, was Carolyn very angry?”

“With the fickle hand of fate Martin, and no doubt with the mosquito population of Tahiti. But not with you.”

>>>

“Right, that's all clients grovelled to and we're cancelled until next Tuesday,” said Carolyn, with a last despairing glance at the number of expensive minutes displayed on the screen of her phone. They had been kicked out of the hospital at the end of visiting hours and, for the lack of anywhere else to go, had returned to the airfield.

“Honestly Douglas, I don't know what to do. I should probably book Martin onto the first available flight back home, but that leaves us stranded in Nova Scotia one pilot short. Mind you, I'm not sure I should send him alone anyway – when I spoke to his sister, it didn't sound like there'd be much care from that quarter. But we can hardly wait out a three-week full recovery time here until he's fit to fly. MJN would be actually bankrupt by then.”

“Entschuldigung. I could not help but overhearing. You have a pilot requiring medical repatriation to the United Kingdom, but if he cannot fly for you, you cannot fly him, ja?”

“That is a neat summary of our problem, yes,” said Carolyn, trying not to get too distracted by wondering why a man who could use terms like 'medical repatriation' in English would say 'excuse me' in German.

“I believe I know someone who could help.”

“If you know a qualified pilot looking to work their passage to the UK, then that would be super.”

And then, for the first time in days, the universe really smiled on MJN.

“If you can take some cargo for her, I think she might even be willing to pay you.”

>>>

“Oh Eberhard, hi,” said the woman in overalls, staring glumly at the landing gear hydraulic parts she was packing into a crate. “Three boxes of spare parts was all that was worth saving. Can you believe I was supposed to fly that thing back to the UK?”

“That is what I have come to see you for,” said the German pilot. “This is Douglas, his captain is too sick to fly.”

“Where to?”

“Fitton. We would have room for your three boxes,” said Douglas, largely relieved that the cargo was not something illegal or alive.

“Fitton - perfect!”

“Two words that so rarely follow each other.”

“Fair point. But it is convenient for taking this lot to the museum. Is your plane that lovely old girl that was on stand 17 earlier?”

“Again, lovely is not the exact word I would chose.”

“And yet she's not packed in three boxes of remaining workable parts. I've definitely flown worse.”

“Then I think we have a win-win situation.”

The woman placed the final part of the assembly into the box before wiping her hands on a rag and offering the right one to Douglas. “Emma Parkin, aviation historian and rescuer of broken birds from around the world,” she declared grandly. “I look forward to flying with you.”

>>>

It felt wrong to be aboard Gertie without doing his final walk-around, but the climb up the steps had been quite exhausting enough. Martin sank into one of the second row passenger seats, the front row being unavailable due to the piles of soft blankets, drinks bottles and assorted treats that Carolyn had already dumped there.

They did seem a touch over-supplied for coddling one sick pilot and one injured steward through a single flight, especially as Martin rather suspected he was going to sleep through most of it.

“Captain Crieff?”

A woman of about his own age, wearing a plain white linen shirt and khaki skirt, appeared in the doorway. Martin struggled back to his feet to welcome her with a handshake.

“Emma Parkin reporting aboard, sir. If you're up to it, I had a couple of questions from the flight ops briefing notes. And I printed off the manual for this model from the hotel computer last night, but I'd appreciate a heads-up on any of her unique personality quirks.”

“Oh, gosh really?” Martin suddenly felt a lot better about leaving Gertie in the hands of a stranger, if that stranger was the sort of person who downloaded manuals and looked up briefing notes before taking the controls of a different type of plane, rather than winging it. And especially if that stranger wanted his advice, even after meeting Douglas. “Yes, well, er... the anti-icing warning light can be a bit iffy...”

As Emma jotted down notes of the jet's rather numerous quirks, Martin couldn't help wishing that he wasn't currently dressed in items either from Gertie's lost property locker (a mustard-coloured sweater, so ugly it had probably been left behind on purpose) or borrowed from Arthur (black and white tartan shorts). The outfit hardly gave a good impression and he really would have liked to give Ms Parkin a good impression.

“... and I think that's everything.” Martin paused. “Look, Douglas is a good pilot but he's a bit gung-ho at the best of times and he's not exactly had enough sleep the last few days – my fault, I'm afraid – so look out for him getting silly with sleep-deprivation. Call in Carolyn to talk him out of doing anything too daft if you have to.”

“Gotcha. I'd better go and familiarise myself with the instruments, but it was good to meet you. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thanks. And thank you for stepping in – I've no idea what Carolyn would have done otherwise.”

Just as Emma vanished through the galley, Arthur swung into the cabin on his crutches and plonked himself down across the aisle on the same row. “Hey, Skip. Won't this be fun? We can pretend to be passengers for Mum.”

“I think we actually are passengers on this flight.” He really didn't want to get tetchy with Arthur, who had, after all, only been injured trying to help him, but suddenly the long flight stretched out in front of him, filled with irrepressible Arthurishness. And he felt so tired and headachy again that he wanted to cry.

“No, I mean different ones,” said Arthur, oblivious to Martin's distress. “Like “mystery passengers” with crazy demands and stuff.”

Bing-bong, interrupted the intercom. “Good afternoon, and welcome aboard this afternoon's flying convalescent hospital to Fitton. This is your acting captain, Douglas Richardson. We've been cleared for take-off, so please fasten your seat-belts. And Arthur? I believe Carolyn has brought along plenty of in-flight entertainment, so for goodness sake, please let Martin get some sleep.”

>>>

When he'd first met Emma Parkin in the hanger, Douglas had considered her to be a tall plain woman, with a CPL and a convenient absence of aircraft. Now he had to revise that opinion. She was a tall, plain woman with _nice legs_. Still not really his type though.

Throughout pre-take-off and take-off she had been precise and focussed and although she wasn't as finicky about correct procedure as Martin could be, it was hardly laid-back, instinctive, comfortable flying. Instead she seemed to be running through a mental check-list with a no-nonsense, can-do approach that made her sound a little like a character from a WE Johns book.

“Good afternoon,” said Carolyn, arriving on the flight deck with some very welcome coffee. “Our patients are both sleeping like lambs back there. Those painkillers for Arthur's foot are a godsend – pity we can't always dose the passengers for transatlantic flights. Oh and Penny Lancaster.”

“Mmm, 'we stopped off for a pint at the Rose and Crown in Penny Lancaster'. Yes, that's a good one,” said Douglas.

“Sorry, what?”

“Douglas - haven't you explained the rules of Village People to Emma yet? That's not very welcoming.”

“It's fairly simple,” he said. “Nothing to do with cowboys and construction workers. You need famous people whose names sound like English villages. Like, say, Warren Beatty.”

“Not bad, but not a classic,” added Carolyn. “And just to make it interesting, the contents of the cheese tray are up for grabs for the best ones.”

“Oh, got one!” said Emma, alarmingly quickly. “Bradley Whitford.”

“Who?”

“He's an actor in the West Wing.”

“Okay for a beginner,” patronised Douglas, who did now have a vague idea of the actor she meant, but wasn't going to let on. “But it's generally better if they're famous enough that you don't have to explain who they are.”

They flew on in comfortable silence for a while, drinking coffee and watching the sky darken.

“Ainsley Harriott!” yelped MJN's temporary co-pilot suddenly. “Yes!”

>>>

Emma stepped through the door of her flat and dropped her kit bag in the poky entrance hall. It had been a long trip, but the journey home had been unexpectedly interesting. She almost always flew alone these days, which worked out much better than flying with some of the bastards she'd been co-pilot to, during her brief airline career.

But MJN were quite different.

Douglas had all the supercilious mannerisms and plenty of the arrogance of the Air England Bastards, but they were tempered by his obvious concern for his sick colleague. He'd been understandably territorial about his flight deck, but he had rewarded her word-gaming efforts with squishy cheese – and Emma recognised a significant gesture of kindness when she saw one.

No boss she had ever had – not even Nigel at the museum and she considered him to be an excellent leader – had ever been remotely like Carolyn. Certainly no other airline CEO would put their entire company on the line for one poorly pilot – or see the situation through with such wry sardonic wit.

Her meeting with Arthur, teetering somewhat on his crutches, had been brief, but had included the words, “Oh wow! Like the cake? That's a brilliant name!”

However, it was the pale, tired man whose rightful seat she had taken that she found the most compelling. The hopeless lost-property box chic only added to his slightly adorable air of vulnerability, though it was evident that he was a valued employee at MJN. But what made her pulse quicken was the way his eyes had brightened when asked about his plane and the attentive way he'd listened to her describing her own work in the taxi they had shared after the flight.

Most men – even pilots – tuned out within a few minutes when she talked about flying, which tended to be a problem, since there wasn't much else she was any good at talking about. But instead of glazing over, Martin had asked pertinent questions and had actually bounced with delight when she mentioned one of the museum's recent acquisitions.

He had also admitted to not having read one of her favourite test pilot autobiographies, which gave her the perfect excuse to get back in touch. The taxi had dropped both men at Douglas' house, where Martin was to stay for a few days, before taking her home, so she knew where to find him. She ran a finger along her bookshelf, looking for her other best-beloved comfort reads.

>>>

Martin was possibly the best house guest Douglas had ever had. Even while struggling to regain his appetite, he had praised his host's cooking at every meal. He made no complaint about sleeping in Douglas' daughter's Barbie-pink bedroom. And although for the first couple of days he spent long hours sprawled on the sofa reading or watching his way through Douglas' box-sets, he had spent the third morning methodically repairing the long-broken patio lights.

Thus Douglas was staring in amazement at his illuminated patio when the doorbell rang.

“Hi! Is Martin still here? I brought that book we were talking about. And a few others.”

A few books? The young woman standing at his door could barely see over the pile of reading material. Douglas chuckled with satisfaction – his shared taxi plan had clearly succeeded. Several hours in the sky with Emma had convinced him that she and Martin were admirably well-suited to one another. They just needed a little nudge in the right direction.

“Come on through. He's reclining in the living room like a consumptive Victorian maiden.”

“Yes, those Victorian maidens were famed for their re-wiring skills. Oh! Emma! Er, hello.”

Martin was indeed reclining on the sofa, surrounded by juice cartons, tools and snipped off bits of electrical wire. He made a rather ineffective attempt to make the area look tidier by shoving stuff into his father's toolbox. At least he was now wearing his own clothing and thus looked, Douglas considered, marginally less ridiculous in an old t-shirt and cropped trousers than he had on the flight home.

“Would the travelling library care for a glass of lemonade?” asked Douglas.

“What? Er, oh, yes please.”

Douglas beat a quick retreat from the room before he could laugh out loud at the pair's adoring looks as their eyes met over a vintage Concorde manual. But he couldn't help listening in to their conversation while he fixed their drinks.

“And I brought the first season of Ice Pilots. You've probably seen it, but...”

“Actually, I only discovered it halfway through the series. I've never seen the first few episodes.”

Douglas set down the tray of lemonade and biscuits and escaped back to the kitchen, feeling like a matchmaking Wodehousian Aunt. When he next glanced into the living room, they were seated side by side on the sofa watching Canadian rampies clear snow off a DC-10. Martin's head was slowly dropping, and... made a perfect gentle landing on Emma's shoulder.

>>>

A few straggling visitors were still wandering around the museum when Martin arrived to pick Emma up for their date. Even though the mustard sweater and the sick bed scruff apparently hadn't put her off, he had spent most of his final day of sick leave selecting and discarding shirts for the evening, dithering between smart and casual until in desperation, he'd called Douglas for advice.

“Dark blue,” Douglas had ruled. “And good luck.”

It seemed to have been a good choice, from the way Emma's eyes sparkled when she jogged up to the museum entrance. “What time's the reservation?” she asked. “Do we have time for a quick private tour first?”

As they passed the Gypsy Moth, Martin realised they were holding hands. He wasn't entirely sure who had reached for who first, but it felt perfect.

By the time they reached the far end of the hanger, they were alone in the huge space.

“I flew this one back from Italy,” said Emma. “Lovely isn't she.”

“Not so lovely as you,” blurted out Martin. “If I had to catch Dengue fever to meet you, then I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They kissed standing underneath the wing of a Vickers Viscount 700.

As they set off back across the hanger towards the exit, however, Martin stumbled over his own feet.

“Steady!” laughed Emma, tucking her arm through his in order to offer some help with the tricky business of balance. “Sorry, we've been on quite a hike. I've worn you out.”

“I'm okay, really.”

“You look pretty done in. Let's skip the restaurant and go back to mine. Then you can get a nap while I heat up a pizza.”

>>>

“Seriously Martin? A woman you obviously find highly attractive invites you into her bed and you just take the opportunity to _nap_?”

MJN were back in the skies and Douglas was at last catching up on the progress of his captain's budding romance.

“Not _just_ nap,” said Martin, with significantly more pink in his cheeks than Douglas had seen since before his illness. “Er, to nap _first_.”

“Ah.” With his old co-pilots at Air England the innuendo and blushing would have been more than enough, but with Martin and Emma further clarification was needed. It was still entirely possible that the nap was followed by a nice chat about safety regs over pizza. “And?” he encouraged.

“A gentleman doesn't... Bloody hell Douglas, it was better than flying.”

“Well, I should hope so,” said Douglas.

“But it never... I mean, before... always too many elbows and tickly hair and...”

“Captain! I believe this conversation has veered wildly onto a course of too much information. So I take it after this successful conclusion, you will be seeing Ms Parkin again?”

“She's already filed the flight plan for our second date.”

Douglas spluttered.

>>>

With around an hour of the flight left to go, Douglas took his turn to stretch his legs and located Carolyn in the galley fixing two gin and tonics for the day's passengers.

“Well, I hope you're ready for some serious hat shopping,” he told her. “Emma has filed a second date _flight plan_ with our gallant captain.”

“A what?” snorted Carolyn, trying so hard not to guffaw out loud that it brought tears to her eyes.

“Truly, romance is not dead. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to work on my best wedding chat up lines.”


End file.
